


come a little bit closer

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dry Humping, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10490862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Sansa doesn't sleep well on her own, but Jon is more than (and totally altruistically) willing to help out.





	

Sansa Stark is not, by nature, a devious woman. But sometimes impossible situations call for desperate measures. And if crushing on Jon Snow isn’t an impossible situation, well, Sansa doesn’t want to know what is.

The problem with Jon, she thinks, is that she’s known him forever. Robb had brought him home when they were only kids, and Jon had practically grown up alongside the Stark siblings from there. So by the time they hit puberty, Jon was far too bloody comfortable with Sansa to see her as anything but his best mate’s sister.

Sometimes—like when he throws an arm around her shoulders, or tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, or hugs her goodnight—it’s not so bad. Sometimes when he swears and calls her latest ex-boyfriend a dick, she thinks that maybe he’s happy she’s single again. Sometimes, when he throws a bag of her favorite crisps into her room on his way down the hall to Robb’s, Sansa can pretend that it means something more.

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything more than the fact that Jon is nice. He’s just sweet and thoughtful and  _nice_. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just… inconvenient. Because she’s forced to give herself a reality check every time he smiles at her—and despite his broody nature, Jon sure does smile at her a lot (just another thing to make her overthink, the bastard)—just in case none of it means anything and she doesn’t go off the deep end and tell him that she totally thinks about him when she gets herself off.

Oh, god. Why does her train of thought always take her there?

Of course, there are perks to the whole genuinely-nice-guy thing, even apart from all the casual displays of affection that Sansa likes to imagine are actually grand declarations of love. But even if they’re not—and they’re definitely not, _get it together, woman_ —there are other benefits.

Like the nights Jon spends in her bed.

It’s nothing sexual, which is disappointing but, then again, that would probably only confuse Sansa more. No, she just doesn’t sleep well on her own. Her siblings—god love ‘em—had been rather useless on that front, since most of them refused to share a bed with her. Robb can’t stand that Sansa sleeps in the middle of her queen-size, Bran needs complete silence while she needs the TV, and Rickon thinks it’s “weird” to share a bed with his sister. Naturally, Arya had been the only one of any real help. But once Gendry started staying the night, Sansa had kicked Arya out of her room because she may be many things, but Sansa Stark is no clam jammer.

Besides, if Sansa’s not getting laid, someone ought to be. So she had bequeathed that torch to her sister, and went on to suffer through her sleepless nights alone.

That is, until Jon volunteers.

“Listen, Sansa,” he says bracingly when she hesitates at his offer (because how is she supposed to resist him when he’s _in her bed_?), “you look like you haven’t slept in a week. Not that you look bad,” he’s quick to add. “Just… tired.”

“She hogs the covers,” Robb pipes up.

Jon kicks him. Which might be overkill, considering that the last person who needs to know that he’s got a major hard-on for Sansa is her big brother. Jon doesn’t like to think about it that way—he doesn’t just want to get in her pants; he really, genuinely _likes_ her, oh god, but does he like her… But that’s what Robb would say if he knew, that Jon just wants to “get fresh” or whatever, and move on. He’d probably even include it in the eulogy he gives at Jon’s funeral. After he fucking murders him.

 _“What?”_ Robb protests, rubbing his surely bruising calf. “She does!”

“San, seriously,” Jon continues as though his best mate isn’t still grumbling for no reason, “I stay over every other night, anyway. Really, the benefit’s twofold: you get some sleep, and I don’t have to listen to your brother snore and, like, mumble Jeyne’s name lovingly while he has wet dreams about her. I don’t need to be there for that.”

Sansa takes a moment to wrinkle her nose at a now sniggering Robb, then turns her attention back to Jon.

“Alright,” she agrees around the mad skip of her heart in her throat. “If you never tell me anything like that about Robb again, I will provide you sanctuary from his sexual deviance.”

“Deal.” Jon smiles, and they high-five to seal it.

 _Easy as pie._  

* * *

 

As it turns out, pie’s not all that easy. Jon’s not sure who came up with that expression, but frankly he’d like to find out and sue them for gross incompetence.

To be fair, getting into Sansa’s bed hadn’t been all that difficult. And it’s not as though he’s going to abuse his position here by pawing at her all night—unless she _wants_ him to paw at her, but Jon hasn’t gotten as far as figuring out how to ask, politely, if he may do so, thank you very much.

No, the problem with this particular pie is that Jon has no idea what he’s supposed to do with it now that he’s got the recipe. Or however the hell else he’s supposed to continue the analogy. Jon prides himself on a fair few things, but a wordsmith he is not—a fact to which he can also attribute his total inability to tell Sansa how he feels. Which is totally, completely, insanely over-the-moon for her.

But who wouldn’t be? Jon confesses himself stunned that not everyone is madly in love with Sansa. Perhaps he’s just blind to any reason why you wouldn’t be. She’s beautiful, and kind, and intelligent, and Jon _hates_ how ho-hum blasé that all sounds but, again, he’s no poet. All he knows is that _he’s_ mad about her, and honestly that’s quite enough to stress over without bringing anyone else’s feelings into the mix.

It’s so stressful, in fact, that Jon finds he can’t sleep when Sansa is beside him. And sleep had been the whole point.

They’d been going two weeks strong and Jon had managed to maintain his composure. Somehow. Miraculously. Even when she comes to bed in nothing but a camisole and shorts, he’s managed to scrape some semblance of decency. How? Again, he hasn’t the slightest idea, and he doesn’t want to overthink it—just in case he then proceeds to fuck it all up, as he’s wont to do if left to his own overly emotional devices. He’s just lucky that he wakes up before Sansa; in her bed, surrounded by her scent, her body’s warmth radiating into him, all of which has led to the most ungentlemanly morning wood since the beginning of time.

Thus far, Jon has been able to excuse himself gracefully, but… Well, they’d been going two weeks strong and Sansa—who is a _cuddler_ by nature, by the way—is getting _waaaaaaaay_ too comfortable. It’s enough to make Jon resent that they’d known each other for the better part of their lives. Maybe she wouldn’t be so comfortable if he was just another one of her exes. Then again, if that were the case, Jon would probably be a complete douche by default, and the last thing he wants is Sansa with another guy like that.

So, in a nutshell: Everything is fine—a bit uncomfortable on Jon’s end, but basically fine—up until night number sixteen. That’s when Sansa starts getting _ideas_.

Jon has just settled onto the far edge of the bed (Robb had been wrong about the covers, but Sansa does tend to stray to the middle of the mattress, and Jon thinks he should give them both some space) when Sansa broaches her request.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” he says to the soft sound of his name.

“Could you—” Sansa takes a quick, steadying breath, willing herself not to lose her nerve—“I’m sorry, it’s freezing in here, you know how Daddy never turns the heat up unless Mama badgers him and it’s too early in the winter for her to start, so—oh, shut up, would you?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers around the laughter that had made her snap at him. “Oh, come on, San, don’t mope. Do you fancy a cuddle?”

“I’d fancy you _shutting up_.”

He chuckles again, and rolls over until he’s nestled in the middle of the bed with her. Knowing someone for more than half your life does have its perks, he supposes as he snakes a loose arm around her waist. This doesn’t have to mean anything other than a lifelong friend comforting another, not if she doesn’t want it to.

“There.” Jon curls his hand into a fist, just to keep from touching her more because he probably shouldn’t. “Happy now, little spoon?”

Sansa grumbles into the crook of her elbow, trying her damndest to keep from giggling in unabashed glee at the feel of Jon pressed against her.

“I hate you,” she mutters in an attempt to sort her shit out.

Jon’s breath tickles the back of her neck when he snorts again. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

_What the hell was I thinking? I can’t sleep with him IN MY BED. SPOONING ME. Oh my god, I’m an idiot._

It had been one thing when Jon had stayed on his side of the bed, Sansa thinks while she chastises herself some more. But no— _noooo_ , that hadn’t been enough for her. She just had to raise the stakes. Why? Because she’s a fucking idiot, that’s why. It’s not _that cold_. She wouldn’t have _died_ if he didn’t wrap his arm around her, no matter what her drama queen brain insists otherwise. She’s supposed to be getting a grip on herself. This is, like, the opposite of that. Letting Jon stay in her bed, asking him to come a little bit closer, snuggling her back into his front… This is not getting a grip. This is cutting the bungee cord and freefalling into shark-infested waters because why the hell not?

_Because it’s fucking stupid, that’s why the hell not._

It’s just… He smells so good. Clean. And he’s so warm, and it’s so nice to whisper back and forth with him while they slowly lull each other into sleep. Jon’s voice is a reassuring vibration behind her, and every time he laughs it’s so quiet and deep and it’s like an electric shock down her spine.

God, Sansa thinks, even his laugh turns her on. What is this? What _is this_?

Jon shifts against her, bringing her closer still. He mumbles something else but Sansa doesn’t quite catch it. He’s so close now that she can feel his heartbeat at her back, and— _oh my god_ —if she just moves a little more, just wriggles a _little bit_ —

Yup. Yes.

If there had been any doubt in Sansa’s mind before that Jon might want a little more from these sleepovers, it’s vanished now. She’d chalk it up to simple biology or… whatever (look, she’s not a scientist)... but Jon is at least half-hard right now and when she moves, he moves with her. It’s only a slight thrust of his hips—barely that, really, but he jerks himself back quickly as though he’s just done something very, very wrong, and then he clears his throat and pretends that nothing happened.

_Oh, nice try, but I don’t think so._

Sansa’s riding on perhaps an inflated sense of boldness here; impractical as it may be, she chases the feeling. She’s exhausted and this is stupid and, you know what, if Jon’s getting hot and bothered tonight, who’s to say he hasn’t been dealing with it for just as long as she has?

Really she’s doing them both a favor, she tells herself as she moves again. Just slightly, just a little push and rotation of her arse into his groin. It’s like totally innocent. Nothing to see here, folks…

Jon’s fingers uncurl from the fist he’d forced them into, and his hand palms her stomach, letting loose a flood of butterflies within. Sansa straightens her shoulders to better fit the lines of her body against his. Again, slightly, subtly; she could just be adjusting her sleep position for all he knows. It’s a precautionary measure, on the off-chance that she’s got whatever’s going on in his pants completely wrong. He could be keeping a candy bar in his pocket for all she knows.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Sansa rolls her eyes at her own foolishness. Jon does not keep a _candy bar_ in his pocket. That’s definitely just his dick.

“Sansa…” Her name is a harsh breath that hits her earlobe in an explosion of stale toothpaste. His hand is on her hip now, clutching it for dear life while she presses into him again, a little more obviously this time because _inconspicuous_ only gets you so far.

“Jon?” she says back, her voice just as low and harsh and rather surprising to her.

“I think—” his fingers dig into her hipbone and pull her more firmly against him, and he ducks his head to nose at her shoulder blades—“I might be dreaming. Did we fall asleep?”

Sansa bends her arm back to curl around his neck. “I could pinch you, if you’d like.”

“Jesus.” Jon swears while his mouth opens on her neck. “Don’t say shit like that, okay, or this is gonna end before I can get started.”

“Really?” Sansa can’t help herself. It seems ridiculous, given her position—what with Jon grinding her arse against him and tonguing her neck and all that—but then again, this all seems pretty surreal so… “Pinching? That’s what does it for you?”

“Honestly, Sansa, you could probably tell me to go stick my dick in a pencil sharpener and I’d head straight for the nearest office supplies store in a fit of sexual frenzy.”

Sansa has to slap her hand over her mouth to keep her laugh from waking the rest of the house. “Oh, _god_ , now there’s a line—”

“Mhmm—” Jon’s lips make a path to her ear, and his hand leaves her hip for her chin because fuck, he’s gotta kiss her for real—“now shut your smart mouth and kiss me, yeah?”

She doesn’t need telling twice. Besides, he’s already caught her lips with his own by the time he’s done asking for them.

Jon’s tongue slips into Sansa’s mouth and all pretense between them is gone. Her fingers tangle in his hair and his clutch at the dip in her waist. It’s so out-of-place, the way the blankets are tangled between them, and yet it fits the way nothing else has. It’s at once sudden and unexpected, and the most obvious thing in their world.

It’s easy here, in the dark and relative quiet, with nothing but the muted glow and sounds of the television to disturb them. The house is too new to creak, and everyone else is fast asleep. It’s easy to let the years melt away into the now—into one moment, one night, one world-shifting kiss. Like it was always supposed to happen this way, and suddenly all the doubts and the bullshit in between don’t matter like they used to.

Sansa thinks that if this the way she goes out, well, damn… It’s been a good ride. Jon thinks likewise, which he makes clear enough when he pulls his mouth away (but pushes his hips into hers again) and says, “In the interest of total disclosure, I did think about this when I offered to bunk with you.”

“So I gathered,” Sansa says, which is sort of bull but also true. She tries to turn to face him, but Jon only catches her mouth in another kiss and shakes his head.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, plucking hot and harried kisses from her. “Just stay there.”

“Jon, this cannot possibly—” she begins to protest, but he thrusts into her again and she thinks that maybe it _can_ , but she still needs to say something, even if it is on a groan—“feel good to you.”

His thumb teases the band of her sleep shorts while he murmurs into her skin, “ _You_ feel good to me.”

That wrenches another moan from Sansa. “God, you’re good at this.”

“Yeah?” Jon’s stuck between amused and so turned on that his brain’s about to short-circuit. His hand slips over the top of her shorts, right at her center, and he rubs against her more insistently—all greedy hands and wanting cock and persistent mouth. “Which part?”

“All of it,” Sansa gasps. She covers his hand with her own, moving his fingers atop her, wanting to shove them into her shorts but too drunk on the friction to bother. They’ve got time for that, a million years, it feels like.

His hand explores her through the cotton of her shorts, and she wants more more _more_ but all the same this is enough, more than enough. Her hips move with his and he wants to press her back into the mattress and climb on top of her, but for right now, tonight, touching her like he can’t have her entirely is somehow exactly what he wants. Soft, eager whimpers tumble from between her lips; his breath is coming in ragged bursts. His teeth nip at her earlobe in some attempt to steady himself, and her fingers twist into his hair as she tries to do the same.

“God, San…” Jon hums in a complete mess of want and need and incredible restraint because it’s not like he had the foresight to stick a condom in his wallet, so he contents himself with his mouth on her neck and that spot behind her ear. Honestly, if all he gets to do for the rest of their lives is rub up on her like an unneutered dog, well… fuck it, he’ll take it. “In case you couldn’t tell— _shit_ , I’ve wanted you forever.”

 _Thank god_ , Sansa sighs in relief, and takes Jon’s mouth again.

* * *

 

Jon is whistling on his way down the stairs, but he trips over the tune when he meets a narrow-eyed Robb in the kitchen.

“What the hell’re you so chipper about?” Robb wants to know, regarding his friend suspiciously. In fact, if it’s possible, his eyes narrow even more with every second Jon doesn’t respond. There are, incidentally, far too many empty seconds for either of their liking.

“I, uh—” Jesus, why hadn’t he thought of anything to say? Jon wonders, wanting to kick himself but that would definitely give something away. “Um, just had a good sleep.”

“A good sleep,” Robb echoes, his gaze fixed on Sansa now as she skips downstairs, humming to herself. God, did they think he was totally obtuse, or what? “Right.”

Robb sets down his spoon, then takes one final, bracing swig of coffee. He cracks his knuckles, mutters “Right” one more time, and rubs his hands together as he rounds the island towards two people who are way too happy to be awake at eight in the morning.

“Oh, fu—” Jon leaps behind Sansa, holding her in front of him like a human shield when Robb barrels towards him.

 _“OUCH!”_ Sansa curses when her brother collides into her on his way to Jon. “Robb, you oaf—”

But he’s too busy shouting “JON SNOW, WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY SISTER?” to pay aforementioned sister much attention.

“I didn’t _do_ anything—” Jon is lying through his teeth as he attempts to block Robb’s blows. Granted, he’s not going full throttle or anything, but all the same Jon would rather not be hit at all, thanks.

“Oh, yes, he did,” Sansa rats him out with a smirk.

 _“SANSA!”_ the boys shout in unison, Jon horrified and Robb irritated.

She rolls her eyes at the pair of them before hauling her overreacting brother off his red-faced friend. “Oh, get a grip, would you? Both of you,” she adds as she shoves Robb back a little more. “Honestly, what did you think was going to happen when Jon started sleeping over in my bed?”

“Are you really playing the inevitability card?” Robb demands, half-amused now as he takes the mickey. “Or is this _destiny_? Did _fate_ bring you together so that my best mate could disrespect the bro code in the most damnable, dramatic fashion?”

“Talk about dramatic, Robb, take a look at yourself—”

“You’re one to talk, _your highness_ —”

“Shove it up your arse—”

“Whoa, _whoa_ , WHOA, I am _telling Mum you said tha_ t—”

Their argument is brought to an abrupt halt by another one of Jon’s whistles, this one long and high and meant to disrupt. Sansa and Robb whip about to look at him, and Jon holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Alright, so we’ve established that Robb’s earned the drama queen crown for today,” he says, because he’s got a couple of oncoming bruises to prove it, “and that Sansa and I… well, we’re a—er—aren’t we?”

He looks to Sansa now, unsure of what he’s saying but sure that she’s caught on. Before last night, the absolute last thing Jon was sure about was whether or not Sansa had grown wise to his hints. He’d never been much for aloofness, but then, Sansa simply hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up for nothing. Now, though...

She smiles, and Jon’s heart settles. “Right. We are.”

Robb throws his hands up in exasperation while the two idiots in front of him grin at each other. “Well what the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means,” Sansa says with a quick wink at Jon, “that you’ve got about five seconds to clear out before I decide I don’t care and totally ravish my new boyfriend in front of you.”

“Disgusting,” Robb declares. But, purely in the interest of his own sanity, he makes a hasty exit and leaves them to it.

Besides, if he’s going to murder Jon—which he certainly  _is_ , by the way, because you don’t just disrespect the bro code by fucking about with your mate’s sister and _get_ _away with it_ —he figures the least he can do is give the man a moment to say a proper goodbye.

After all, Robb thinks as a peal of Sansa’s laughter follows him down the hall, making him smile in spite of himself, what are friends for?


End file.
